


Sharp Night

by motelsamndean (whalesandfails)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesandfails/pseuds/motelsamndean
Summary: They're both vibrating from the hunt, fire in their bones. Dad's headlights have receded from view, and tonight feels like a night for crossing lines. For driving on the wrong side of the road. For taking dark, secret things that have been long desired.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Sharp Night

Dean drives fast tonight. Faster than Sam’s ever seen him go. The glare of Dad’s pickup highbeams reflecting off the mirror into Dean’s eyes, illuminating them a monstrous, sinister green. His heavy workboots smear the accelerator with mud as he presses firmly down, shaking bloodred hands shifting gears quicker than Sam can catch, up and down and up and down as they climb hills and snake quickly through s-turns. 

Only mellows out once he reaches moonlit fields and they’ve left Dad at the last truck stop for gas as they motored on, coasts to a smooth glide as Baby rumbles beneath them, all feigned nonchalance and quiet engine. 

“Why do you drive like that?” Sam asks, can’t help but keep the condescension out of his pouty teen mouth, like it was born there, like its festered there for decades and not months. 

Dean replies with an unusual bout of honesty: “because I’m lonely and I’m bored and I want nothing more than to die. In this car. With you.” 

“Reckless,” is his sneered reply. 

Dean just slants him a grin and his eyes are luminous again. And Sam is in love with his brother. He’s sixteen and terrified and recognizes his brother’s roiling agony, a curiosity to die, to kill, to pull triggers and dig graves, not unearth them. Wants to see how much he could do, where his hands and feet stop, when his body simply says _enough_. 

He hasn’t reached it yet. 

Thinks maybe reaching across to tangle hands into brother flannel might be where he stops. Where his mind can’t force aching, tired muscles to move. And its not bloody or dangerous – but it is. Its own kind of violence. One he has pressed tender fingers to, toed the line more times than he can count, but never breached it. Never crossed beyond into something murky and unclear and utterly forbidden in the one way he hasn’t exposed himself to. Yet. 

He’s killed, and fought for his life, and kissed little Sadie Athens under the bleachers, and done a little more with Karen Kaminsky in her mom’s minivan. Pressed long boyish fingers into soft and swelteringly hot girl flesh. He’s come home from hunts with blood splatter on his face, can’t help but gaze at the way the only part of his body clear of it is his eyes, kaleidoscope colors shifting over his tender muscles and watching the way they flex under Pollock artistic splatter. Grins a dangerous grin, and watches the blood smear across white, sharp teeth.

He’s left parts of himself in alleys, under bridges, in high mountain woods. He’s committed almost every sin the bible tells him not to. Thinks of Adam and Eve at the edge of the world, at the start of it. How turning onto the highway feels like entering liminal space, just Dean in a car with him and a whispering susurrus in his ear, serpentine and dangerous and saying things like _brother lover_ and _incest_ and _sin, sin, sin_. Thinks of Eve, apple juice smearing down skin, Adam shocked but ready to devour the same sickly, sweet fruit. Wonders where he’d bite Dean, press teeth into skin and hold tight until his jaw aches. Clenches his teeth in the passenger seat in practice until Dean mentions how sharp his jawline is looking, how he’ll attract the ladies; but the only one Sam would care for it to see is sitting two feet of pressed vinyl and four years and a dangerous game of chicken away from his aching, bleeding hands. 

Sam thinks _maybe tonight_ , when Dean looks like this. A shaking to his hands that should have receded hours ago from the hunt. A kind of frenzy behind his eyes. 

Sam wonders why people want to live forever. He never wants to get old. Never wants to see Dean age and shrivel and groan from a failing body. He wants to see Dean die young, all youthful gaze turned blank and innocent boy freckles only marred with splattered blood and not with crows feet or faded scars. 

Sam watches the horizon change, watches it go from flat line to peaks of trees to obscure black as they enter more hills. He didn’t want to cross the line in the moonlight like that, all purity and glistening hay, moving in the wind like the sea, only brighter, so much brighter. The ocean looks black at night, only white tips of water and the agonizing white noise a reminder that the largest mass to exist lies beyond pupil-blown eyes. 

And tonight doesn’t feel like a field night, or an ocean night. Tonight feels like a forest night. The possibility of startled animals at every turn, fallen trees, wraiths and wendigos in the black. 

When the car darkens from trees blocking the moon, Sam crosses his final line. 

Left hand first, reaching over to Dean’s hip, nestles between stiff denim and worn seat. This itself is not unusual, they often lean against one another when sleep takes them. But the noise of Sam unbuckling his seat belt, his other hand pushing knees apart to press palm flat between them. He slides forward on shins, settles his hips on his heels, and ignores Dean’s suspicious glance as he uses his chin to push fabric and expose Dean’s shoulder under his worn flannel, sharp collarbone peeking out. 

He bites down, hard. Feels the unforgiving texture of bone underneath a layer of skin that feels too fine to be real. Like nothing, as if they truly could die any moment. His second bite is to Dean’s Adam apple. Oh, Eve, the sin. He can feel when Dean tries to swallow. It sends a chill down his spine. He bites on Dean’s chin, stubble harsh on his lips. 

Sam lines up with Dean’s mouth. And Dean is trying not to move, quick glances between road and brother. And Sam _consumes_. 

That Dean doesn’t pull away is a sign of the fire inside of him now, too. Or maybe of something more. He growls when Sam bites him hard, hisses when Sam digs sharp fingernails into his ear. Sam thinks of the way dogs are tattooed in their ears, in the way they can always be found, in that unrelenting ownership. Laves thumb over the indents he’s created. 

The second kiss is tender, soft. Pecks against corners of lips, cupid’s bow, dimples, what the first should have been. A slow avoidance of the one place that would cross the final line, as if the first never happened. One of Dean’s hands palms at his stomach, and Sam feels his heartbeat quicken at the innocence of it. Reminds himself of the times vomit smeared his face, and Dean would stroke his stomach just so. Sam opens his eyes to watch Dean take long blinks every time he comes close, eyes unfocused but still on the road, one hand clenching and unclenching in time with Sam’s innocent assault. 

The third kiss is the realization that this is not a whim for either of them. Isn’t the high of the hunt or boredom or confused teenage horniness. Its intent, its years of aching love kept secret. Hidden glances kept too well. Motel bathroom walls just thick enough to hide whispered brother names under the low pressure stream of lukewarm water. A building of self-guilt and angst weathered alone.

Sam knows how many girls Dean has kissed, but is still surprised by the expert tangle of his tongue. Nothing has ever felt like this. He squeezes his eyes shut too tight, squinting against the weight of it. Its like his entire soul has entered his mouth, is sitting there, waiting to be licked up by his brother’s tongue. Like his whole being is between his lips and if he doesn’t clench his teeth it will leak out, and he will be a shell of himself. Reduced to nothing but a vessel for Dean to consume. He knows he should do something, move his hands, touch Dean, but is trapped in the tangle and wet glide of it all. 

Dean bites his lower lip, snaps him out of it. 

The fourth kiss is much like the first, all tongue and edges of teeth. But this time Dean gasps in an inhale and pops the button on Sam’s jeans in a practiced twist of thumb and forefinger. Doesn’t push the zipper down agonizingly slowly the way Karen Kaminsky had, instead presses filthy hands into Sam’s heat, lets the intrusion itself draw the metallic _zip_ into the air, echoing in the muggy weight of the car. Sam feels like a bullet, like a blade, like a gun. Like every weapon his brother has ever held: expertly tended, efficiently equipped, utterly destroyed. Its barely a kiss at this point, just mouth to open mouth, all hot shared air and dewy eyes. 

The last kiss changes his life. Makes him want to stay forever, want to run into the ocean at night and let the currents draw him away. He thinks dully: _Stanford_. Thought rising unbidden like bile in his throat as his body hums under the heat of his brother’s fingers. He’s never wanted something more in his life. He thought this was the last line – the last picket to unearth. To love Dean wholly. He realizes that no, _no_. It isn’t. There’s one more. 

To love Dean wholly, and leave him. To love Dean and let it fester, let it ache, let it hurt so much he can’t breathe. He meets his own reflection in the driver’s side window. Dead eyes no longer every color of life, but the wriggling, writhing array of bugs and fungus when you roll a corpse off its resting place on damp earth. Wants to die, but not to take a handful of pills or a blade to tender elbow flesh, wants to die from heartache so profound and _pure_ he would suffer twice – once for doing it to himself at all, the second for thinking he had that type of love to give in himself in the first place. 

Baby eats pavement, miles at a time. Sam never wants to make it out of this car alive. Not ten miles down the road, twenty, in a week, ten years, or more. “Faster Dean, faster.” 

And poor bloody brother - Eve’s wicked tongue in his ear, one calloused hand holding firm to indents in the steering wheel from father from son from a life in this car, other hand down his brother’s pants, pace quickening, wrist turning, foot pressing firmly to floor, rumble of Baby turning to a whine as she is pushed to her limits – obliges.


End file.
